


Relatively Speaking

by Rulerofthefakeempire



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Let me have this man, Love, M/M, Marriage, Sharing a Bed, they in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 07:27:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19102477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rulerofthefakeempire/pseuds/Rulerofthefakeempire
Summary: “So,” Crowley began, watching the pencil move as Aziraphale scribbled a note in the margin of his notes, “What do you think we should do, angel?” He asked, murmuring against the soft skin of his throat. Aziraphale paused in his scribbling, looking up, tapping his pencil to his bottom lip in thought. Crowley watched his face.“I was thinking of having a bath myself, what do you think?”Crowley frowned at him.“Thats not what I meant.”“Well, what did you mean then?”ORCrowley figures it's about time to get hitched, hey?





	Relatively Speaking

The evening came slowly, the light coming less and less through his faded curtains, though the city traffic outside hardly waned for the ending day, always going somewhere, always with somewhere to be. His eyes moved slowly over the room, going back and forth, knowing it all, checking for anything new, that there was nothing he missed.

They’d had millennia to collect their favourite bits of human junk, millennia to determine and redetermine, collect the shiniest bits of debris they could find, the most interesting inventions, affects, and creations. But he’d never assorted things like Aziraphale had, his standards were higher, his decorative style a bit more bare. Aziraphale kept things from every decade, every period of human development, every twist and turn, he delighted in their discoveries, proud of them in a strange way. Crowley had never understood it, but the bookshop was not less pleasant to be in for it, a collage of eternity thus far, books in dead languages written by dead poets whose likeness was painted by dead painters. But there were still places on the shelves for the books not yet written, the shop itself a landmark in time, remaining there forever, braced to absorb whatever humanity created next, be it atomic blast or new age symphony.

Crowley lounged on his bed, watching him at his upstairs desk, chewing on the end of a pencil, plate of biscuits beside him. Aziraphale had no need for money, but he asked a small commission for translation services, for appearances sake, for access to all the dead languages he’d collected. Occasionally he turned back to look at him, ask if he remembered a word, what English substitution might suit best. Sometimes he had an answer, sometimes he didn’t.

But he liked to be asked.

He liked to lie in his bed too. He could have reproduced it verbatim in his own apartment, down to the tiniest quilted fibre, down to the barest molecule, soft blankets, good pillows, mattress bought sometime this century, familiar, comfortable. But it wouldn’t have been the same. It mattered that it was _his_ bed, above his bookshop, in his flat. It was important that in an hour or two Aziraphale might get tired of his book and crawl backwards onto the sheets with him, and they might pretend to sleep together, like they did most nights.

He waited, as patient as a man like him could get, watching him scribble out a word, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. There had been decades of distance, decades forgetting his face but knowing he was probably out there somewhere, thwarting him. There had been years between visits, always bumping into each other at an unexpected interval, always surprised by his own surprise to see him. But the periods of distance had decreased, kept decreasing, until their years apart had become months, weeks, days, hours. The invention of phones had only made it worse. Never too far from each other. 

But it was only the two of them, only the two of them, full time and in England, only the two of them in a vast sea of short living humans, with hearts too big for their ribcages and heads too small for their skulls. Crowley had never considered himself a social creature, but even he craved a familiar pair of eyes every now and again. Thats what he’d spent centuries telling himself, telling himself that it was just a familiar pair of eyes and that was all, just a conversation to have, replaceable, interchangeable, could have been anyone, he’d told himself, could have been anyone.

But, it couldn’t be helped.

He couldn’t help it.

He probably could have helped the nights though. Meeting in the day was one thing, lunch was one thing, happily flirting from their respective positions of power was one thing. The nights were another. The nights, the weeks of nights, the little get aways, the little constructions, excuses. _Could I tempt you to an oyster? I’ve been invited to a wedding in Belgium. Did you know that this restaurant is also a hotel? Might stay for a few nights. I’m going to France for a few weeks to tempt a priest in the countryside, got a cottage and all, wouldn’t you want to be stopping that sort of thing? Angel?_ So on and so forth. He probably could have helped that. But he hadn’t wanted to. Not then and not now. He’d been comfortable, been comfortable for so long he could hardly think of what it would be like to be uncomfortable.

He slunk from the bed, taking care not drag the bedding with him, dressed in a borrowed pair of tartan pyjamas. A kind of joke between them, as though Aziraphale didn’t know that he preferred to sleep in the nude. The angel didn’t react as he moved, creeping from the blankets to the desk, from antique four poster bed-frame to antique rug to antique floorboard to antique desk. Aziraphale didn’t even flinch as he wrapped his arms around his shoulders and knocked their heads together, rocking them gently. He hadn’t flinched in a long, long time. There had been decades of it, decades of flinching, fleeing, decades of beginning, cautious, anxious, only to crack away like a breaking wave a half second later, jumping at any barely lingering touch.

But here, post-apocalypse, set deep into comfort, above his unburnt bookshop, in matching tartan pyjamas, having known he was there, Aziraphale just hummed and raised his cheek for it to be kissed. Crowley abided. During Aziraphale’s periods of gentle cowardice he’d had periods of brutality, bitterness and rage; somewhere between worried that he didn’t have it in him to be delicate with something he found precious and frustrated that his precious thing wouldn’t let him try. He’d been unkind. It hadn’t bothered him then, he’d desperately tried to convince himself that it didn’t bother him, didn’t bother him that he took too much liberty in what he said, didn’t bother him the way Aziraphale’s eyes widened and eyebrows pressed together, standing back from him, hurt look on his face.

But he could be nice if he wanted to be, he could be gentle, sweet, soft, whatever. And Aziraphale had the capacity to be cold, if the moment struck, Crowley lived in terror of it. Aziraphale’s hand rose to his head, eyes not lifting from the page, his leg crossed over his knee, studying the words, running an affectionate hand through his hair.

“So,” Crowley began, watching the pencil move as he scribbled a note in the margin of his notes, “What do you think we should do, angel?” He asked, murmuring against the soft skin of his neck. Aziraphale paused in his scribbling, looking up, tapping his pencil to his bottom lip in thought. Crowley watched his face.

“I was thinking of having a bath myself, what do you think?”

Crowley frowned at him.

“Thats not what I meant.”

“Well, what did you mean then?”

“I mean in general,” he made a vague hand gesture in the air, before tucking his arm back around his shoulders, enjoying holding onto him. He didn’t make himself remember those days of distance often, those periods of distrust, of wanting to trust, of tentative steps forward and hurried steps back. But once he did, it made him hold tighter. He’d already fallen, already lost Hell’s backing, there was little he had left to lose. Except this. “What are we going to do _now_?”

Aziraphale’s hand returned to his head, running fingers though his hair. He remembered first realising the feeling, back in those early days, lying in a bed in the dead of night, as close to man like him got to sleeping, realising that what he could feel was Aziraphale tucking his hair behind his ear. A quiet, almost protective gesture, the barest minimum of care. All of Crowley’s gestures had been big, colliding into him at the train station, yanking him down of his horse, pressing him up against things, but Aziraphale’s gestures were small, gentle, comforting. Like nothing he’d ever known, not even from before he’d fallen.

Aziraphale scratched behind his ear.

“The same as before I suppose,” he mused, “we never worked very hard at our jobs, my dear.” Crowley humphed against his skin, nose buried under his jaw until Aziraphale dislodged him, standing, causing them both to straighten. Crowley followed him, arms slipping to his waist, hands knitting over his tummy as Aziraphale pottered about the room, unfazed by Crowley all but hanging off him, kissing his ear, whining at him.

“But aren’t there still things you want to do? Before they come for us.”

Aziraphale bristled, watering the houseplant Crowley had gotten him a few years back on the window sill.

“Don’t be morbid, my dear, we draw little to no attention, I see no reason why they wouldn’t just forget about us.”

He watched Aziraphale water the plant, knowing that he only spoke to it nicely, and that was probably why it was dying. Whenever he left the room Crowley took the opportunity to hiss at it, threaten its continued existence, explain how easy it would be for him to drop it down onto the street below, smashed on the cobble stones. It did nothing to earn its keep, and he glared at it from over Aziraphale’s shoulder, arms tightening around him.

“You don’t believe that,” the voice that came out of him was almost a snarl, almost venomous. He felt Aziraphale still in surprise, Crowley kissing his shoulder in apology.“Sorry,” he muttered, the two of them standing by the window, watching the traffic go by, traffic that wouldn’t have gotten to exist without them. “Just a bit restless is all.”

Aziraphale re-inflated himself, he felt it, rising back up from where he’d tensed at the tension in his voice, turning in his arms to face him, expression soft, still pleased that he was there, unfailing.

“Well,” he said, “theres nothing wrong with that.” Everything he said came with an air of clumsy finality, _I forgive you_ said at the wrong time but said honestly, _I love you_ said the same, drawing a line in the sand at the precisely wrong moment and barrelling onward anyway. He enjoyed the end of discussion, a conclusion come to firm and fast and final. That was the way it was with Aziraphale.

He beamed at him.

“Bedtime is it then?”

Crowley cringed and buried his face in the crook of his neck in response, rubbing his forehead into his skin. Aziraphale laughed, stroking his back, cooing gently to him, one hand in his hair the other on his spine. They fell into bed together, in their matching pyjamas, arms around each other, as though it had never been any different.

…

Deep in the night, imbedded in the almost sleep of two celestial beings with no need for that sort of business, Crowley felt Aziraphale roll over in his arms, stretching and yawning, throwing an arm around him and nestling back down with a hum, nose buried in his collarbone. They lay together in a nest of quilts and blankets, in his dark bedroom, roughly the same as it had been for the past few centuries, arms around each other. Crowley rested his cheek on his head, listening to him snore into his clavicle. 

When things were bad, when they’d seemed doomed, they didn’t even pretend to sleep, isolated back to their own flats, their own beds. As if they’d never emerged from those decades of distance, the tumultuous years, as if they’d never been comfortable at all, as if all they’d ever known was the discomfort of holding each other at arms length. He’d hated it, bitterly. Found himself longing to push his head down in front of him, have his hair tucked behind his ears, arms around him, unthinking, habitual. He’d longed to be delicate, comfortable, milling around after him, not bothering to look as though it was a matter of convenience or coincidence to find himself beside him.

The thought that this was how they were going to spend their last days together had horrified him, standing with a foot between them, as though they were hardly connected at all, as if it was all just proximity. But it was better now, he was back in his bed, in his arms, allowed to touch him, kiss him, follow him around.

“I do love you, Crowley,” he’d said, head on his shoulder on the bus ride home from the apocalypse, “I hope you know that.”

He did, had for a long time, but he’d aways suspected that it didn’t matter, that whatever the angel was calling love could be as easily swept under the rug as anything else, easily ignored, easily denied. But the way he’d said it had made his shoulders slump, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for the past eleven years, breathing out, every muscle relaxing. _I do love you, Crowley._ He’d rested his cheek down on his curls, squeezing his eyes closed behind his sunglasses, Aziraphale’s hand knitted through his, resting atop his thigh; the first contact they’d had in weeks.

 _I do love you, Crowley._ A ridiculous sentiment, Crowley buried his nose into his hair, shifting his arms around him, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Sometimes he missed the passion of the distanced decades, the discovery and rediscovery of hips and skin, of his neck and his ears and his stomach. Back when all their meetings had been explosive, sparks; always cautious at first, reserved, unwilling to even speak to him, rigid determination in his eyes, determination not to let things escalate, not again. But his determination faltered, it always did. Crowley was never quite certain what it was, if it was something he said, something he did, if it was lunch or dessert. But uncertainty always entered his eyes, his expression always softening, looking at him with a sort of fondness, a sort of hungry endearment. And then suddenly it was anything but slow, suddenly coming undone, a hesitant step towards the cliff and then suddenly plummeting, Aziraphale smiling at him, leaning over the table, twinkle in his eye, teeth at his throat before they reached the hall.

But then it was over and the horror set in and he’d be gone, Crowley’s hair tucked behind his ear and left alone on the bed, sleeping off a buzz that died all too quickly. A few moments of incredible euphoria, connection, honesty, gasping against his skin, taking all the comfort he offered. But for years afterward he wouldn’t speak to him, disgusted with himself, disgusted with him, unable to look him in the eye, unable to lean into his touch. It was a cycle of violent self-destruction, pinned somewhere between self-loathing and distrust.

When he thought about it, he didn’t miss it all that much.

He was slow and sweet, he could be slow and sweet, Aziraphale’s breath against his chest, peaceful. As though Crowley hadn’t burst into his bookshop only a week ago, flames flushed over the walls, the smell of burning thick in the air, alight. As if he hadn’t had to sit with the terror that he was staring down an infinity by himself, that he was going to have to keep living, keep going without him. As though he’d never felt a horror like the concept that he wasn’t even out there anymore, he wasn’t even out there being an angel, out there being Aziraphale. He was just gone, never to exist in his vicinity again. Crowley had found himself sobbing, drunk, planning on staying drunk because he had no idea what he was supposed to do with himself once he wasn’t there to bother him about it.

He’d never known a panic like that, didn’t want to again.

“Do you love me?” He found himself whispering, lips moving against his hair, their legs all tangled, eyes open and locked on the darkness.

“Hm?” Aziraphale was barely awake against him, hardly rousable, “of course I do, my dear.” He felt a small kiss pressed into his bare chest, and Crowley’s arms tightened around him. He’d wanted to hug him from that first moment, wanted to tackle him from behind the first moment that Adam had given him his body back. The relief that had washed though him, that he was back, that he was safe, that the barrel of eternity was still worth hurtling through.

But he hadn’t, knowing that the moment wasn’t then, that if they lived he’d get his fill, get back into his arms, back into his bed, back into his company, back at the top of his list. He lived for that position.

“You remember when I asked you if there was anything you wanted to do? Before they come for us I mean.”

He felt Aziraphale humph into his arms, burying his face into his chest, like he was trying to escape him, bury back into whatever he called sleep.

“I recall telling you not to be so foreboding, my dear,” Aziraphale muttered into his skin, a bit mirthful, almost bitter.

Crowley tutted to himself.

“I don’t care for that tone,” he hissed, “but there’s something I’d like to do.”

Aziraphale hummed sleepily against him in response, nothing else coming out of him.

“I’ve been thinking that we should get hitched.”

For a moment there was silence, the breath stilled on his collarbone, Aziraphale suddenly rigid in his arms. Before he launched himself backwards and stared intently up at him, eyebrows together, eyes entirely awake and focused on him. He made it easy to remember that angels were warlike creatures, though he didn’t show it often.

“Heavens, Crowley, _why?_ ”

He acted like he’d suggested that they run away to the circus together, the same way he’d looked when he suggested Alpha Centauri; caught in some combination of defensiveness, indignation, and despair. Crowley had the self-respect to bristle.

“Why not?” He hissed, “most humans get married after a year or two, we’ve been at it for centuries, millennia.” Aziraphale frowned up at him.

“But we _aren’t_ humans,” he insisted.

Crowley frowned back, eyebrows raised.

“But you do love me, you said as much, can’t take it back now.”

“I’m not going to take it back, but-”

Crowley cut him off.

“It’s what people do when they love each other,” Aziraphale’s nostrils flared at him, almost looking angry, eyebrows furrowed. “And you love weddings,” Crowley insisted, “whats the damage, angel?”

“Whats the damage?” He whispered harshly back, “you’re a demon is the damage, marriage is a union _under god,_ it’s absurd.”

Crowley almost snarled back.

“No, it isn’t,” he hissed, “it’s just something to do, you know, with life. You could invite people, you love inviting people to things, we could have it in the park-”

“Stop it, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice had turned cold, his eyes narrowed in the darkness, “I said no.” With that he rolled over in his arms, withdrawing his hold. He didn’t move away enough to keep Crowley’s arms from tightening around his waist, whining into the nape of his neck, but he might as well have been on another planet, might as well have banished him from the bed. Aziraphale ignored him, ignored him until the dawn came and Crowley finally slipped into a fitful sleep, despair trapped in his chest, wrinkles between his eyebrows, mouth turned down.

…

When he woke up, Aziraphale was gone from his arms and for a terrifying moment he though that he was gone, gone like he’d been in those distanced years. Like he was gone and not to coming back for a decade or two, punishing him for what he'd suggested. 

His eyes shot open, launching upwards, sitting up like he was made of rocket fuel, igniting, hands fisted in the sheets. From where he sat on the edge of the bed, still dressed in his tartan pyjamas, Aziraphale glanced at him hesitantly, hand spread over the mattress beside him, eyelashes fluttering. But he wasn’t gone, and Crowley fell back in relief, collapsing back onto his pillow, letting out a breath.

“My dear,” he heard Aziraphale whisper, “is it really important to you? Marriage?”

He couldn’t say exactly what it was, wouldn’t be able to explain quite right. These past few weeks it had been so easy to pretend they’d never touched, so simple to deny that they were even friends, that he felt most comfortable lounging in Aziraphale’s bed, in his bookshop, slinking from corner to corner. And there was a part of him that wanted it be harder than that, wanted to wear a ring long enough that it might never come off, wanted evidence with him always, a constant confirmation that he was loved and loved in return. He wanted to make the transition as difficult as possible, booby traps on the path back to being strangers, he wanted nets falling from the ceiling, wanted it in writing. 

“It is,” he whispered back.

For a second Aziraphale looked hesitant, almost afraid, like he was staring down the cliff, considering the drop, lips pressed together.

“Well,” he didn’t look up at him, “okay then.”

“Angel…” he wanted to say something, something poetic, something that wasn’t mean, something soft, but he had none of the words, Aziraphale reaching out and placing something down beside him from where he lay on his side. A box, a ring box, maroon velvet. His gaze flickered to him only for a second.

“It’s for you,” he said, “I’ve had it for a very long time, it just took me a while to realise that I bought it for you.”

Slowly, carefully, Crowley reached for it, drew it close to him. He barely recognised that his hands were shaking as he opened it, touching it with a kind of reverie, a kind of quiet worship. And inside was a gold ring, crowned by a ruby, deep and red, cut impeccably. The gold was so rich and brilliant, he must have polished it recently, for it to be so bright and deep, for it to match so perfectly the depth of the ruby.

He stared at it, mouth hanging open, and stared at Aziraphale, who shot him a nervous smile, and back down again, and up, and down, over and over.

“Well, what do you think?” There was anxious terseness to his voice, a sort hope, “do you like it? ”

Crowley stared at him, lost for words for a long moment, blinking like a newborn bird.

“Do you have one?” He ended up whispering. Aziraphale showed him his hand, and there glimmered a matching gold ring, a matching ruby on the ring-finger of his left hand, shining in the morning light. “Christ, angel,” he breathed, staring, “they’re perfect.” Aziraphale shot him a small smile, withdrawing his hand and bringing it to his chest, twisting the ring around his finger.

“So thats a yes, then?” He battered his eyelashes in a way Crowley was certain he knew got to him, smiling almost hesitantly.

Crowley yanked him down on top of him by the fabric of his pyjamas, and kissing him hard on the mouth, like when they’d been new to this, feeling like they only had so much time before the horror reemerged, trying to put everything he had into that kiss, trying to make it all clear. Aziraphale gasped, stiff against him, trying to steady himself with one hand on his chest and the other on the bed, before he melted, because he always did. Always sinking down, given the opportunity, the incentive, kissing him back, settling down beside him, Crowley’s box gripped in his hand.

“That’s good,” Aziraphale muttered against his chest, peppering him with kisses as he bathed in the euphoria of an accepted proposal, of waking up and him still being there, “because, I don’t think this ring is ever coming off.”

Crowley laughed breathlessly, arm around his waist, warm against his side.

“I really do love you, angel, honestly, I really do.”

Aziraphale laughed back, ring shining on his finger.

**Author's Note:**

> Bruh. 
> 
> They're in love. Loving love. All the love. So much.


End file.
